


Nothing More Costly

by Welfycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Moral Ambiguity, Sexual Assault, Sheriff Stilinski POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welfycat/pseuds/Welfycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski discovers that with the proper motivation some moral limits, such as committing murder, are more arbitrary than he'd ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing More Costly

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Kidnapping, torture, sexual assault (of a main character). Murder (not of a main character).  
> Author Notes: Takes place in the summer following Season 2, with general spoilers through that point.

_"Nothing is more costly, nothing is more sterile, than vengeance." - Winston Churchill_

_"I just don't know what's gotten into you lately, why you're... Go home, Stiles. We'll talk later."_ These were the last words he'd said to his son, standing with folded arms in the middle of a fresh crime just before he turned to watch Stiles' jeep rattle down the dirt road, and they echoed in his head as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it down on his desk. He had come back to the Sheriff's Department instead of going home; he still hadn't the slightest idea what he was going to say to Stiles. People had warned him about teenagers acting out and he had thought he was prepared. He'd been prepared to set limits and to remind Stiles that actions had consequences. Not once had he imagined the series of murders at Beacon Hills and the frequency with which he found Stiles slinking around the crime scenes. If Stiles was someone else, a different kid, he might be worried. As it was he just couldn't understand what Stiles was trying to accomplish.

A knock caught his attention and he looked up to find Chris Argent standing in his doorway. That was right; this time Scott and Allison had been along for whatever mischief Stiles had been involved in and Chris Argent had shown up to retrieve Allison. They'd taken Scott with them, though now Argent was alone. He could only hope that Argent wasn't here to blame Stiles for his daughter wandering around bloody crime scenes.

"Mr. Argent, how can I help you?" he asked, standing and trying not to let the weariness that had settled onto his shoulders show.

"Chris, just Chris," he said, stepping into the office with only a passing glance at the stacks of files that showed just how badly their department was snowed under.

"Chris," he allowed. "Thank you for taking Scott with you today. He's a good kid, they all are, but sometimes they don't think before they go looking for trouble."

Chris nodded and stepped closer. "That's certainly true enough. I'm actually just here to drop something off," he said, pulling a small dvd case out of his jacket pocket and setting it in the middle of the desk.

"What's this?" he asked, glancing down at the unmarked dvd that was visible through the clear casing.

"Something that you need to see. Not in your capacity as the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, but as Stiles' father," Chris said, his expression going distant for a moment. "I hadn't realized that our children had left you quite so in the dark. It won't explain everything, not even close, but at the very least you need to know this."

He picked up the dvd, undeniably curious but also more than a little hesitant. "What the hell does that mean?"

Chris turned from where he was smoothly walking out of the office. "Just watch the dvd. If you have questions later, you know where I live."

He waited, listening as Chris retreated down the hallway, and then sat with a sigh and a suspicious look at the dvd. He had wanted Stiles to tell him what was going on, wanted to have that conversation for months now, but Stiles had proved to be incredibly evasive and a better liar than he had hoped. Even when he knew when Stiles was lying, which was often, he couldn't fathom why or what he was concealing. And these past three weeks he'd barely seen Stiles - the house was almost always empty when he arrived home. No, he had given Stiles every chance to come forward and tell him what was going on. If he had to find out from Chris Argent, so be it.

While his computer booted up he tried to figure out what Chris could possibly have video of his son doing. A drug deal, maybe, though he'd watched for the signs of drug use and had seen absolutely nothing. He cringed at the idea that it could be some kind of homemade teenage porno; that was just not a conversation he was prepared to have with his son. The only idea he could come up with that remotely made sense was that Stiles was involved with something illegal and had been filmed doing it. He supposed he was lucky that Chris didn't seem to want an official investigation.

He put the disc in the dvd tray and double clicked when the box came up asking him if he wanted to view the files. There was only one file on the dvd, a video named _Stiles.avi_. After a second to think he jumped up to shut and lock his office door and then made certain the volume on the speakers was nearly all the way down, just in case. He had a brief attack of conscience, wondering if he should just go home and ask Stiles what was on the disc, but he knew that he would get more lies and evasions. He set his jaw and clicked on the video file, trying to brace himself for whatever it was.

The first seconds the video were disorienting and incomprehensible - a handheld camera being jerked around in a room that was half dark and half light. After a moment it focused on an empty pool of light on the bare concrete floor and he turned up the volume so that he could better hear the voice that was coming from somewhere offscreen. A date-stamp was at the bottom of the video, marking the events as occurring on a Saturday at the beginning of June, nearly three weeks earlier.

"Look, just let me go and we'll call it even, okay? I'll deliver your message and they'll get the idea." It was Stiles' voice, quick and on the edge of panic but not quite there yet. The camera wavered again as three people came into view; two men with a third being dragged between them. His heart sped and his chest ached as the camera focused enough to make it clear that the person being dragged was Stiles.

"Don't worry about that. The message will be heard loud and clear," one of the men said as he dropped Stiles to the floor and then kicked him. The motion was swift and brutal, practiced and efficient. It wasn't just some guys messing around, they knew what they were doing. "Feel free to scream as loud as you want."

He forced his eyes to remain on the screen as Stiles was beaten by the two men. Everything was calculated, made to hurt and made to look good all without doing any permanent damage or anything that would require treatment at a hospital. They left his face alone but everywhere that could be covered by clothing was fair game. Stiles stopped trying to talk about five minutes in, even though he still struggled to keep his whimpers and screams to himself.

The attack finally stopped, both men stepping away in unison at some unseen signal and Stiles flopped helplessly on the floor as he struggled agains the metal cuffs that kept his wrists bound behind his back and the chain that was padlocked around his ankles. The camera jolted again, giving him glimpses of the ceiling and the bright outline of a door as it was passed to another person, and the man who had been filming before stepped forward.

"Kneel up," the man said, kicking Stiles' thigh when Stiles made no move to get up. "Now!"

He looked away for the first time; somehow it was worse to watch his son struggle helplessly to obey a command that his body couldn't fulfill than it was to watch the men beat him without mercy. "Come on, you can do it," he whispered.

When he looked back to the screen Stiles was on his knees, his face wet with tears and his breathing uneven as he looked up at the man in front of him. "Have you ever thought of a career in dog obedience training? I think you might have seriously overlooked your potential by choosing a life in crime," Stiles said, stumbling over several of the words but still somehow managing to look completely guileless as he blinked up at the man.

Even through the grainy and shaky video he could see the man smile, both genuinely amused and horrifyingly cruel. "Interesting, I would think that was more your job description than mine, Stiles. Perhaps if you'd done your job better they would already be here. Do any of them even realize you're gone yet, I wonder. No matter, they will soon enough." The man now had his hand cupping Stiles' chin as he spoke, their eyes locked together.

Stiles lost any trace of both fear and bravado all at once. "You better hope they never find you. If they do there won't be enough of you left to identify, and that's if you're lucky."

The man only leaned down, his words barely audible even though the volume was now all the way up and was half filled with static; "When this is over there won't be anyone left to come for you. I'll save you for last, maybe I'll even let you live as a warning." The man didn't give Stiles' a chance to respond, his fingers digging into Stiles' jaw as he forced his mouth open with one hand and unzipped his pants with the other.

His breathing was shallow now as he watched, one hand pressed over his mouth as he simultaneously bore witness and swore vengeance against these men for what they were doing to his son. The camera zoomed in obscenely, focusing directly on the assault and then on Stiles' closed eyes, and it wasn't until the end it backed away so he could watch Stiles drop to the floor while making desperate choking noises.

The man stepped away from Stiles, tucking himself away and zipping up his pants before he stepped back into frame. "Have fun with him," he told the remaining man, who immediately stepped forward to pull Stiles back to his knees. The man who was evidently in charge looked directly into the camera to speak to whoever was the recipient of the message. "Come for him by tonight or we'll kill him. This is just a friendly reminder of the consequences of your actions." The video ended when the man stepped out of frame again, the camera tilted as it was prepared to be handed back, and Stiles was out of focus but clearly struggling against the hand wrapped around his throat.

He stared at the blank screen on his computer, feeling like someone had just reached into his chest and torn everything out and let it spill all over the floor. It reminded him of the time he had been shot, the simultaneous numbness and overwhelming pain and inability to think of what he needed to do next. _"Get to cover, get to cover,"_ he had found himself repeating over and over as he dragged himself down and away from the firefight, and now he found himself repeating over and over "Stiles is alive, Stiles is alive. I just sent him home. Stiles is alive." After enough repetitions he started to believe it again.

He ejected the dvd and put it back in the case, confused beyond measure. How could this have happened to his son? How could this have happened and he hadn't known about it? Who had the message been intended for and how had Chris Argent received a copy? It was clear the target _wasn't_ the Sheriff himself and he couldn't fathom how his son could be involved in something that could lead to this this. Stiles wasn't yet seventeen, he was still in high school, he wasn't even really dating yet. He was essentially a child even though he was almost tall enough to stand and meet his father's eyes directly.

"Stiles is alive. He's at home. I saw him," he stopped and checked his watch, "I saw him an hour and forty minutes ago." He knew from the required training seminars that he went to every other year that it was a miracle that Stiles had survived. In most cases, especially with videos that didn't demand ransom or make an attempt to hide the identity of the participants, the video was essentially a notification of death. Someone had rescued Stiles, maybe even the person the message had been directed at, and he was torn between gratitude and fury.

With how frequently Stiles had been gone recently, the mornings he woke and Stiles had already left the house far outweighed the ones when he woke and Stiles was at home, how long would it have taken him to realize that Stiles was missing? A day? Two? Longer? Had his relationship with his son really disintegrated so far that he hadn't even noticed the aftereffects of Stiles being kidnapped, tortured, and sexually assaulted? He knew why Stiles had hid it from him, maybe not the details of why but at least the thought process behind it. But it was still no excuse that he'd missed something so big. If he could miss that, what else wasn't he seeing?

On autopilot he collected his jacket and the dvd case, checking his gun in his hip holster twice and trusting the weight of his backup weapon at his ankle. If he had to he would investigate all of this himself, everything from who to why, but he never turned away from an offer for answers. He didn't trust Chris Argent, had always been a little hesitant about the man, but he needed to know why Chris had this dvd and what Chris knew beyond that. If Chris wouldn't help him willingly, well, he had other resources at his disposal.

*****

The drive across Beacon Hills was a blur and before he even conceptualized the loss of time he found himself on the Argents' doorstep with his fist pounding on the front door. He clenched his hands at his sides, vaguely aware of the possibility that he was going to punch Chris Argent when he saw the man and not entirely certain he wanted to direct his fury away to the men who deserved it - he had enough rage to spare.

The door opened and Chris Argent didn't look the slightest bit surprised. "I'll answer what questions I can. Come inside," he said, his lips pressed tight when he finished speaking but his voice was even.

He calmed his rage and stepped inside; answers were more important than vengeance for the moment. The sound of quiet footsteps caught his attention and he looked up to see Allison at the balcony above the entryway, looking down at them with her eyes wide and her fingers tangled in her long strands of hair.

"Go to your room," Chris said as he turned and looked up at his daughter.

"Dad?" Allison asked, her eyes flickering to the sheriff with worry.

"Now," Chris said, not raising his voice but with power behind the command nevertheless.

Allison disappeared into one of the rooms upstairs, her bare feet almost soundless on the floor, and the door shut with what wasn't quite a slam.

"Ordinarily I'd invite you into my office," Chris said as he started walking, "but the basement is more far more difficult to eavesdrop upon."

He followed Chris through the house and down a set of stairs into what looked like a war room of some kind. Everyone was aware that the Argents sold weaponry to law enforcement and other agencies and had all of the proper permits but what he was seeing spoke to far more involvement than just weapons trade. He let Chris move to one side of the table in the center of the room, the buffer space most likely a wise idea, and he pulled out the dvd case to place it carefully between them.

He had so many questions he barely knew where to start, his usually ordered mind lost to the avalanche of images and emotions the video had shaken free. Finally he asked the first question that worked its way to the surface. "How did you get this?" he asked, aware that his voice was trembling with more than just rage.

"The person it was sent to - and no I can't tell you who that was - brought it to me in hopes that I would be able to locate Stiles and the men," Chris said, his stance shifting uneasily.

"To you, and not to me?" he asked before he considered the implications of what Chris had said. "If they were supposed to come for Stiles, shouldn't they have known where to find him?"

Chris shook his head. "No. They were making a point. It was fortunate they were cocky enough to send the message while Stiles was still alive."

He blew out a hard breath and closed his eyes, reminding himself once again that he'd seen Stiles alive only two hours earlier. With his hands gripping the edge of the table he opened his eyes again and stared at Chris - whatever was happening, Chris was involved. "Why did they take Stiles?" he asked, his words carefully even.

"Right now, you wouldn't believe me if I told you the absolute truth. But ask Stiles. Tell him that I think it would be wise for him to tell you the truth about everything and that no one would begrudge him for doing so. No one," Chris said.

"Not good enough. What is this? A drug ring? A cult? Some kind of terrorist organization?" he asked, grasping weakly at all the reasons he could think of for a ritualistic kidnapping and torture. "Why my son? Why did you even bring this to me if you're not going to tell me?"

Chris stood straighter, his chin lifting as he met the sheriff's eyes. "Because they could have just as easily taken Allison. They were out in the town and it was only by chance that she was the one who stepped inside the store for a moment instead of Stiles. You needed to know, so I'm telling you because our children think they are invincible and can handle everything by themselves. I never wanted this life for my daughter anymore than you would have wished it for your son, but it is what it is now. All we can do is be there for them and do our best to protect them when they'll let us."

He stared, trying to make sense of what Chris was saying in relation to Stiles. Ordinarily he would feel empathy for another man who had lost his wife and the mother to his only child, but now he could only wonder if she had been a casualty to whatever this all was. "They were going to kill him," he found himself saying, his mind bordering on that muffled stage of shock again now that the protective shell of rage had fallen away.

Chris dug one hand into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook, leafing through the pages until he stopped and pulled one out. He pushed it across the table.

Two names were written on the page with an address beneath them, all in Chris' small, tidy print. He didn't have to ask to know who they were. "And the third?" he asked, his voice suddenly rough as he considered the possibilities.

"Already taken care of," Chris said, his expression unchanging. "Even if his body is eventually discovered all identifying features were destroyed and he won't be reported missing."

Whatever Chris was involved in - whatever Stiles was involved in - it was something where people could disappear without a word being spoken. He couldn't help the chill that ran over his spine - half in horror and half in relief that the task set before him would be easier than he'd anticipated. "Your work?" he asked, curious if Chris would openly admit to murder to the sheriff even with all the mitigating circumstances.

"Not entirely. The original recipient of the message did most of the work, I only took care of the remains. I find it unwise to leave teenagers to the task of properly hiding a dead body," Chris said sagely. "I'm willing to take care of the other two as well, if you'd prefer."

His hand tightened around the piece of paper. "No."

Chris considered him for a moment and then nodded. "Despite the constraints of your position," Chris nodded to the shield on the sheriff's jacket, "I trust that you will do what is best for your son."

What he wanted to do, what he was planning to do, and what his shield said he should do were very different things. He blinked, feeling half lost as he took a steadying breath.

"If there's nothing else right now, come back to me once you've talked to your son. I imagine you'll have questions," Chris said, remaining steady across the table.

He nodded. He still had questions, dozens of them tumbling over each other in his mind, but he needed to see Stiles first. He had to see his son before the memory of seeing him alive two hours ago, passing him yesterday morning in the kitchen, seeing him sleeping on the couch in the living room with the tv still on, all gave away into uncertainty. "Thank you," he managed, and somewhere deep inside he was grateful to Chris for pointing him in the right direction.

"Thank me when this is taken care of," Chris said with a meaningful nod to the piece of paper still clutched in the sheriff's hand.

*****

He barely glanced at the speedometer as he drove across town though he knew he was exceeding the speed limit and then some. The advantage of being in a marked vehicle was that he didn't have to worry about being pulled over and he knew all too well that they didn't have the manpower for his deputies to regularly patrol the residential sections of the town. When he pulled into his driveway, parking next to Stiles' jeep, he took a moment to decide what to do with the piece of paper Chris had given him. He needed to put it somewhere safe, even though he'd already memorized the information, but he didn't want to let go either. It was too important and letting it leave his hand felt like he would lose his hold on the situation as well. Finally he folded it once and slipped it into his pants pocket where he could press the flat of his hand against it to reassure himself it was still there.

The house was quiet when he unlocked the front door and let himself inside and he felt his heart lurch with fear that Stiles wasn't there. He forced himself to walk down the hall, his hand resting over the grip of his handgun, and he passed the empty kitchen and dining room before reaching the living room. He wanted it to be a relief that Stiles was right there, sitting on the couch with a book open next to him, but somehow it only increased the feeling that everything was wrong. With a jolt he realized what had felt wrong every time he'd seen his son in the past few weeks; Stiles was motionless. Whatever frenetic need that usually drove Stiles to twitching and pacing and waving his hands was gone. Stiles was sitting almost completely still, his eyes blinking occasionally along with a barely noticeable rise and fall of his chest, and his expression was eerily blank.

He blinked hard and realized that there were tears streaming down his face, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. He hadn't cried like this since two weeks after his wife had died. It had been days after the funeral, long enough for it to start to sink in that she would never walk into the house again, that he would never look up from his work to find her watching him with a faint smile and her gaze full of pride for him. On that day Stiles had found him kneeling in the front hallway, halfway between bent with wordless prayer and doubled over in agony, and Stiles had knelt next to him and placed his small hands on his back and offered strength and comfort. With no small amount of discomfort he thought that was maybe the day Stiles had stopped being able to come to him for help. Stiles had always been independent to a certain extent, eager to rely on himself instead of his parents, but it was there that Stiles had taken on the role of an adult in the house and began to take care of his father instead of the other way around. And now Stiles was trying to protect him, to keep him from even knowing that his life had gone so profoundly wrong. He wasn't certain but he thought a gasp might have escaped as his tears renewed.

"Dad?" Stiles asked, looking up from the couch and then leaping to his feet with more agility than he remembered his son possessing. "Dad, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

He closed his eyes as he felt Stiles reach for him, his hands bigger now but still aiming for that same comfort and reassurance. He was supposed to be there for his son, he had to be the one to take care of Stiles because it was long past time. The tears wouldn't stop falling even as he berated himself. Seconds later he pulled Stiles in his arms and held him in a hug, giving soundless thanks that he was able to hold his son and feel him breathing. He opened his eyes again, releasing Stiles from the embrace, and looked into his concerned eyes. When had his son become almost as tall as him?

"Dad?" Stiles asked again, the pitch of his voice raising briefly in panic and then Stiles visibly centered himself. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

There were no answers to those questions. He wasn't okay, he didn't know what had happened, and his entire soul hurt like it had been torn from him. "Stiles, I know," he said, finally managing to blink away the last of his tears and control his voice. "Stiles."

A rush of emotions crossed Stiles' face, so quickly that he couldn't pick out any except fear and relief. "Do you care to be more specific about what you know?" Stiles asked, hiding all of that emotion away behind a mask of unsettled concern.

He took a deep breath and wondered when his son had gotten so good at hiding. He could remember it like yesterday when he knew when Stiles' was heading for mischief just from the flicker of his eyes. He was tempted to tell Stiles that he knew everything, just to see what he would get in response, but he was done with lies between them. Stiles had been lying to him for months now and he had been letting him because there was never enough time and never the right moment. Maybe if he had pushed, taken the extra five minutes to stop and ask his son what was happening, maybe this never would have happened. "I know that you were held hostage nineteen days ago. I know that you were tortured and assaulted," he said, hating that his voice shook on the last words. "Stiles."

Stiles took a step back, his expression contorting in fear and then rage. "That son a bitch. Who was it? They knew I didn't want you to know. They knew!"

"I'm glad he did," he said, wondering who besides Chris the 'they' included. "Stiles, this is something I need to know. I need to know what is happening with you. You're my son."

Stiles had turned and walked several feet away, but looked back at his father's words. "I need you to stay away from this. It's not safe," he said, his breaths coming quickly and his hands held rigidly out in front of him.

"Stiles, it is not your job to protect me," he said, taking one step forward and then coming to an abrupt stop when Stiles held up his hands and backed away. "Whatever this is, whatever is happening, I will find a way to get you out. I promise. I know you feel that you can't trust me, not after your mom-"

"Don't!" Stiles said, somewhere between a gasp and a shout.

"Not after your mom died and I wasn't there for you. Not like I should have been," he said, continuing despite Stiles' crumpling expression.

Stiles shook his head. "You did everything you could," he said, but his eyes were watering with unshed tears.

"I didn't do nearly enough," he said, abruptly dizzy. He wondered when he would be able to look at his son without seeing the images from the dvd superimposed over him. "Stiles. Maybe I haven't said this enough, but I love you. You are my son, my child, and that will always be true no matter what happens. Nothing can change or has ever changed my love for you. Nothing you tell me will change that."

"You don't know," Stiles said. He had backed himself against the wall and was slumped against it like he didn't have the strength to hold himself up any longer.

"Then tell me. Whatever you want to say, I'll listen," he said. It was a long shot, and strange circumstances beyond his current understanding leading him there, but he would try anything. "Chris Argent. He said that you should tell me the truth, about everything. He said that no one would mind if you told me."

Stiles sighed and swallowed hard. "He said that. For all the good it does me now. For all the good that does any of us. That bastard."

He went to the couch and sat down, keeping his distance from Stiles but not taking his eyes off him once. He was almost afraid to blink in case Stiles disappeared and this was some grief fueled hallucination. His hands shook again as he thought about how close he'd come to losing Stiles and possibly never knowing what had happened. Stiles could have disappeared and he might have never known if he'd run away and was safe somewhere or if he was dead in an unmarked grave. "Whatever you need. If you want to get out of Beacon Hills, we can do that. We can be gone tonight. We can go so far away that no one will ever find us. If you need some time, or some space, I can do that too. Stiles," he said, his voice catching on the name of his son. He couldn't stop saying it, trying to replace the voice in his mind from the dvd.

Stiles walked over and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "No, I need to stay. I have responsibilities."

"Okay," he agreed. "But know that the option is there if you want it. You only have to say the word."

Stiles nodded and the edge of his foot bumped purposefully against his father's shoe. "I can't tell you everything. I can't even tell you most of it. It's not just about me, there are other people who might be endangered. We were sloppy and we attracted too much attention already," Stiles looked into his father's eyes earnestly. "That was a mistake, and not even our first or our worst."

"Okay," he said, ignoring the frantic analysis in the back of his mind of Stiles' phrasing in favor of focusing his complete attention on his son. "Whatever you want to tell me, I'll listen."

*****

He had intended to wait longer, a few days at least just to be certain of his course of action, but he'd discovered that he couldn't sleep while those men were still nearby. He couldn't close his eyes while Stiles was still in danger. That night he'd spent all of an hour sitting on his bed, next to his turned down blankets and sheets, trying to convince himself that it was over and he could rest now. Stiles had said a little, very little, about the circumstances that had led to him being taken. He still didn't know why though, and until he knew he couldn't be sure that they wouldn't try again. This time they would kill Stiles immediately; there would be no second chances.

Eventually he had walked to Stiles' bedroom, leaning in the doorway and watching his son sleep. It was just like when Stiles was a newborn, that first day home from the hospital when he could barely look away from the miracle that was slowly breathing in and out from within the basinet. The miracle that he and his wife had made together. If she had been alive to see this, if she was still watching them, he was sure that she wouldn't even be able to look at him for what he'd let happen to their son. He tried to refocus, remind himself that Stiles was alive and that was what was important, but his mind's eye kept looping the images of the dvd over and over. He'd only watched the video once but the contents had been carved into him bone deep.

The sun had started to filter through the window, coloring everything the muted gray of a night without sleep, and he went downstairs to call into the deputy who was manning the front desk at the department. A few minutes later and he'd explained that he was traveling up north to their neighboring county to visit Sheriff Jim Hastings and catch them up to date on current events in Beacon Hills. He could have sent a deputy, he usually did, but the department was nowhere near recovered from the massacre in March and keeping good relations with the neighboring counties was important. Particularly important after the murders that had shaken Beacon Hills over the past seven months. No one would think it strange if he took the day to go out of town for that purpose and no one would call him back unless it was an emergency.

He fixed breakfast, plans cementing in the back of his mind as he worked, and by the time he turned off the stovetop he was set in his course. Stiles came down at the scent of pancakes, already dressed and showered, and they sat together at the kitchen table as they ate.

"I was planning on hanging out with Scott today. I might be home late," Stiles said, not quite asking permission but with a tone that was waiting for an objection.

"Okay," he said, glad that his son was still doing things with Scott. That was a good sign. Scott was a good kid and a good friend to Stiles. "Keep your cell phone with you?"

Stiles nodded. "I will."

"Call me if you need anything," he said, well aware that he was overdoing it but not able to stop himself.

"I will," Stiles said again, and there was just the slightest twitch downward at the left corner of Stiles' mouth.

"Okay," he repeated, knowing that Stiles' probably wouldn't call him but at least Stiles would know that he wanted him to. "I'll be up in Ferndale for part of the day, but I can be back in Beacon Hills in less than an hour."

Stiles nodded and finished poking the remains of his pancakes around on his plate. "Sure. I'm going to go now. We're going to get in some lacrosse practice before it gets too hot."

He watched as Stiles left, listening as Stiles hurried upstairs and then out the front door five minutes later. Stiles' jeep started in the driveway and the sound disappeared down the street. After cleaning up the kitchen he set to work, packing up everything he needed and switching out his service weapon for one of his backup handguns. He pulled down the map from the bulletin board in his home office, not making any marks but mentally noting his destinations. The densely wooded area to the east wasn't well travelled, not even by the park rangers that surveyed the land, and it was close enough to the address Chris had given him. Chris had assured him no one would go looking for these men, but that was no reason to take chances. People got caught because they took chances, because they trusted that no one would look in the right place or that no one would take the time to put together the trace evidence. He was smarter than that and he didn't intend to go to prison for something that needed to be done.

The drive to the address took just under twenty minutes, though he pulled off the road a ways before the mark. He kept off the road, moving silently through the small trees and underbrush, and when he reached the building he circled around once to take in all the possible entrances and exits. The door in the back was locked and rusted shut, but he noted that there were two windows that clearly served as bolt holes - easy to get out of from the inside but difficult to reach from the outside. The front door would be his access point and he drew his weapon as he moved with his back against the wall up to the door. The handle moved when he gave it an experimental twist and he wasn't entirely surprised to find it unlocked. Wasting no time in case he had triggered an alarm he pulled the door open and stepped inside with his weapon raised.

He scanned over the vast empty space, the same room from the dvd, and movement caught his eye as he turned to the left. His mind and body reacted in tandem, his eyes first focusing on the rifle in the man's hands and then on the man's face - it was the first man who had beaten Stiles. He took the kill shot without hesitation. The man stumbled back against the wall and slumped to the ground, a streak of red left behind on the wall, and he kept his gun trained on the man for as long as he dared. He should go, kick the rifle away just in case, but the scuff of a shoe on the concrete pulled his attention away.

"Drop the gun!" he shouted, his training taking over as he turned to face the new threat.

The man hesitated but the gun dropped to the concrete with an echoing clatter.

"On your knees," he said as he stepped closer. It was the second man; he hadn't spoken in the video but the video had ended with this man's hands around Stiles' neck. The man no longer held a weapon: he could handcuff him, bring him in, and there was the slightest waver of doubt in his heart.

The man knelt smoothly, his hands spread out and level with his shoulders. "Sheriff Stilinski, correct?" he asked.

He took the shot, a single bullet to the man's chest that would kill him almost instantly. He had heard it in the man's voice, the certainty that the _Sheriff_ wouldn't kill him if he cooperated. The _Sheriff_ wouldn't murder a defenseless man. Stiles, not yet a man, had been defenseless as he knelt on that same concrete floor and no mercy had been shown to him. There could be no mercy here and now.

His training took over again and he moved to collect the weapons from near the bodies. He wiped those off and set them in the weapons cache in a side room at the back of the building. He walked back to his car and drove it up to the building and covered his clothing with protective gear. He took the kit he had prepared earlier and got to work; undressing the men, using a knife to mutilate any identifying characteristics, and wrapping the bodies in tarp and then cleaning up the mess that had been left behind. It was long work, hard labor, but he barely felt it as he moved the bodies to the trunk of the car and left the building behind.

The woods took longer. He hiked first and finally found a deep fissure where the bodies could be disposed and covered by nature. No hiker or park ranger would go down there and there was an infinitesimally small chance that they bodies would be discovered before they had significantly decomposed. He used the small fold up cart he had packed to move the bodies, unwrapping them and rolling them into the fissure before using natural detritus in the woods to cover them completely. On the way back he kicked out the wheel indents the cart had left behind. The tarps went back with everything else that would be disposed of in a dumpster in a nearby small town, all of it wrapped in garbage bags so that it would look like everyday trash.

After the disposal was taken care of he stopped in the restroom of a gas station and washed the sweat from his hands and face. He would tell Chris tomorrow that the men were taken care of; he would worry about the third man, but he had seen Chris' face when he said that it could have been Allison who was taken. He had no doubts that the third man, the leader of the small group, was long dead. When he looked into the mirror he saw his own face staring back at him, but he wasn't sure he recognized himself anymore. The features were the same, the lines worn deep from his work, but there was something different. He didn't know if that was from the men - the monsters - he had just killed and disposed of like so much garbage, or if it was from what he had seen happen to Stiles. He nodded to himself in the mirror, a reminder that he had taken a step in the right direction, and he walked back out to his car. He still had to drive up to Ferndale and chat with Sheriff Hastings, both confirming his alibi for the day and reaffirming that he was doing his duty for the town of Beacon Hills and its citizens, including his son.


End file.
